The dentist, a Bwalo man with a nervous smile, explained I had an impacted tooth, infected and dangerous, which had to be pulled. The gas caused my head to swell and the world became a soft painless place. The dentist worked at my mouth with pliers – disconcerting internal tugs – as I drifted in and out of consciousness. When I first came to, he seemed to be pulling at my tongue, as if turning me inside out. In my daze I had a strong sense that this was not my tongue at all; it was the slimy tail of a demon curled and hidden inside me, its tail hanging from my mouth. As the dentist yanked, I smiled, childish gurgles bubbling up my throat, happy someone was at last helping me abort it.
Then came a deep sound, the soft crunch of a nut, and a sour stench caused me to sit up straight and puke, expecting to see my tongue flop into the bowl like a twitching fish. The nurse rinsed the dish with purple disinfectant. Next time I came to, Tafumo was there, leaning over me, still young, strong, but as the fog cleared I saw it was a portrait. Watching, watching, always watching. As the dentist dived back inside, armed with needle and thread, I remembered a time when, as children, Tafumo and I had been warned not to go to a bend in the river. Our elders had said bad spirits lingered there. Tafumo had to go and of course I, his ever-willing shadow, followed. I remember that feeling of fear as we crested the hill – expecting dark shapes to be shifting over the sand – then looking down and laughing. Our laughter racing uncontrollably until tears came to our eyes, we held our knees, fighting for breath between giggling fits. For there on the sand was a hippo: inflated by anthrax, comically bloated into a stuffed toy with legs jutting up. Tourists think hippos are slow, harmless creatures, but they’re vicious, killing more people than any other animal in Africa. The terrifying beast was made funnier by its ignoble end. Clearly they had warned us that spirits lingered there to keep us away, for fear of infection. But standing there, we felt we had seen through the adults’ game; we were wiser than everyone, even our elders. We had more courage than them, no longer just children but men. Our laughter made us brave as we walked towards the hippo, daring each other to get closer, when the wind turned, whipping the stench of the carcass at us, the thick smell like tongues tunnelled deep into our bodies, filling us with pus, until we folded over and vomited. All that had been funny a moment ago was now repulsive. We stumbled back, gagging as we ran, until we were free of the stench. Then we slowed down and walked silently back to our village feeling foolish and childish once again.
The dentist gave me painkillers. I threw money at the receptionist – Tafumo staring up from the notes – and broke out of the surgery into the sharp light, my tongue snaking around the soggy crater, as I drove to the address Patrick’s maid had given me.
When she opened the door, though I’d never met her, I could tell from her elegant features, her slim almost oriental eyes, that this was Patrick’s mother.
I said, ‘You know who I am,’ and she nodded. When I enquired about Patrick’s whereabouts she looked around me, searching, and I assured her, ‘I’m alone, Mrs Goya. I’m Patrick’s friend; we were at university, uMunthu members . . .’ I noticed her head was bobbing to some unheard rhythm. Her body was struggling against a current, afflicted with dementia or some degenerative disease, her dress quivering like silk in a breeze. I wondered if she was all there. But as I spoke, she smiled gently – some code passing secretly between us – as I said, ‘He’s OK, isn’t he?’ It was hard to tell if her nod was in response to me, or to the tremble of her body, so in an attempt to confirm this I said, ‘Yes, he was always a clever man, your son. And I’m happy he’s safe, I’m glad that . . .’ Her hand shot out and snatched my wrist, her grip impossibly strong. And in a dark transference, I felt her tremors infect me; a tingling sensation ran up my arm like ants. And before I could pull away, I realised I was shivering helplessly as she began to still. Standing for a moment, tall and static, staring as I quivered before her, she whispered, ‘Patrick is dead, his wife is dead, his children too. I’ll never know what happened. Can you imagine? Your son? Gone. Nothing left but a terrible emptiness to fill with horror.’ A repulsive moan escaped her mouth, then she said, ‘I know who you are.’ And when she released me I ran but I felt her hand, as if still there, the ghost of her grip tight around my wrist.
Charlie
When the alarm shrieked, everyone stopped still but I was off: sprinting down the corridors, hammering doors, shouting, ‘Tafumo’s coming!’ Didn’t matter if the Do Not Disturb signs were swinging on the knobs because Dad said Tafumo could disturb whomever he wanted to.
Wayne filmed the dancers being herded out to the road where soldiers handed out flags. A few women were in bikinis but Dad shouted, ‘No bikinis!’ It was the only time Dad ever shouted at guests. Then Wayne filmed Truth and his bodyguards zipping past like a chongololo in a rush of legs and bald heads.
On the other side of the road, the staff kids emerged from the kaya and Aaron came over for a chat. The kids lined one side of the street and the colourful celebrities and drunken locals lined the other. Us locals looked scruffy and homemade next to all the slick celebrities.
A soldier told Wayne to stop filming but Wayne shouted, ‘You can’t bloody stop me filming?’ But the soldiers with rifles stopped him filming.
I stood next to Sean and told him, ‘The great Tafumo is Bwalo’s saviour.’
‘Is that so,’ said Sean, in a way that sounded like it wasn’t so.
‘It’s in our textbooks,’ I replied.
‘Then it must be so,’ said Sean, in a way that sounded like it mustn’t be so.
‘It is so, Sean. Tafumo is so powerful that even my headmaster has to wave a flag when he passes.’
Sometimes you have to explain so much stuff to adults.
Then Mum gave me the eye, which is when Mum talks without her mouth, so I turned and said, ‘Sean. Um. I’m sorry about the thing I said last night about Stella,’ forgetting the words Mum had told me to say, I muttered, ‘that word that I can’t say . . .’ Waving his hands as if shooing flies, Sean said, ‘No problem, chief.’ I held out my hand, ‘Still friends?’ and Sean shook it. ‘Won’t get rid of me that easy, Champ.’
Then Sean and I stood in one of those hot sticky silences, where you feel like you might burst, before Sean nudged me and said, ‘Hey, check out your man over there.’ Across the road a council worker in ripped overalls was painting a rock and Sean said, ‘Now, is it my eyes or is that fella painting a rock black? Is that what I’m seeing? OIA, man, OIA!’ Sean always said OIA when something weird happened. It means Only in Africa and he said it quite a lot.
Things got hot and boring until Solomon arrived in one of his dad’s Mercedes and came over and asked if I had any new recordings. First of all I played them something funny that Mum and Dad had said over breakfast.
Click!
Mum: Oh, hey, remember John whatshisname? Marlene was talking about him last night. You know? John somethingorother?
Dad: No.
Mum: Dutch guy was manager at the textile place up past the lake.
Dad: What’s his surname?
Mum: Evans, or Ettes, something Dutch, you know the guy, you played golf with him, his wife was a primary teacher at . . .
Dad: No, I don’t, Fiona, as usual you’ve not given me enough. How can I remember a John-someone from years back who may have been Dutch?
Mum: Well he was your bloody mate! So you should remember him!
Dad: Well I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about!
Mum: Well stop fucking shouting at me!
Dad: OK. God, relax. Sorry. Anyway, what about the guy?
Mum: He’s dead.
Dad: Oh.
Mum: Yes, well I better get to work, it’s starting to get mental. If that bloody Truth fella asks for one more dumb request like blue sheets or bloody distilled pomegranate juice, I’ll kill all his bodyguards then strangle the little teenager myself!
Dad: I love it when you’re mad.
Mum: Get off me.
Da
d: Just give me a kiss.
Mum: Bugger off.
Dad: You never used to say that.
Mum: You never used to annoy me so much.
Dad: Fine.
Mum: Fine.
Aaron and Solomon giggled.
‘Now this one is a bit weird,’ I warned. I’d left my Dictaphone under Dad’s desk, thinking I’d catch Dad and Sean swearing up a storm. Instead Mr Horst and Willem had gone in. ‘Ready?’ Solomon and Aaron nodded and I pressed play.
Click!
Horst: I can’t loan you more money, Willem. It’s not enough that I’ve flown you out and put you up and given you a free holiday to get your shit together . . .
Willem: Stop, Eugene, hey, just stop talking, man . . .
Horst: You only get so many chances and you’ve burned through yours. Buggered the farm, ruined the security firm, you’ve been a mess since you left the army . . .
There was silence, like the Dictaphone had stopped; our ears touched as we placed our heads close to hear what sounded like a cat licking, soft and watery. Aaron pulled back first, then Solomon looked disgusted as he realised Willem was sobbing like a baby. We stared at each other until Solomon said, ‘Yah, that’s really messed up, eh,’ and I pressed delete. That recording would get me into so much trouble and I never wanted to hear Willem crying again.
When some kids started playing football with a ball made from plastic bags, Aaron and I joined in but Solomon didn’t want to because his shoes would get dirty. Solomon’s shoes came from the UK. The rest of us got our shoes from Bata Bata. I painted a Nike Swoosh on mine but you could still tell that they were cheap Bata Batas. Also the real reason wasn’t his shoes but that Solomon thought the staff kids were smelly. They did smell but it was a nice smell. It was the smell of Lifebuoy soap, woodsmoke and Vaseline. So Aaron and I left Solomon with his silly shiny shoes. But just as the game was getting good, the soldiers shouted, ‘Everyone up,’ and motorcycles and Mercedes materialised through the haze at the end of the road, zipping past the celebrities who looked stunned but soon joined in, whooping and cheering like the rest of us knew to do.
The locals sang the Bwalo anthem as the cavalcade sped past dragging a cool breeze behind it, then came the Rolls-Royce and I got a glimpse of Tafumo waving his fluffy fly swat.
Sean whispered to Dad, ‘The whole bloody country’s just an audience for the Great Tafumo Spectacle. We live in the world’s most expensive reality show.’
Once they’d passed, leaving us in a cloud of dust, a soldier raised his eyebrows at Dad who shouted, ‘Back to your gin and tonics, everyone.’
Walking to the lobby, Sean said to Dad, ‘If that spring chicken was Tafumo then I’m Mary fucking Magdalene.’ But before Dad could reply Sean answered his mobile and when he finished talking, Dad asked if everything was OK with Stella and Sean said, ‘That wasn’t Stella. Worse. It was the Big Man’s Little Man, Josef Songa. Wants to see me right away.’ Dad and Sean gave each other the eye. Though it was hard to read what their eyes were saying, it definitely didn’t look good.
Sean
I sat outside his office like a naughty boy. Could this really be about the bookcase? Surely that was below the great man. Since becoming a minister he’d delegated most of the day-to-day university work to lackeys but he kept his old office. He was dean of the university when I first met him, when he offered me the job in the English department. Even back then Josef was a man about town. Dapper and stylish, the best-dressed man in the university by a clear mile. The rest of us were still in kipper ties and flip-flops but he looked like some sort of black male model. In the eighties when he became a minister his suits got sharper, the respect people had for him turned to fear, and he was met with fawning admiration wherever his Mercedes took him. His gleaming car, shining shoes, were a sort of miracle to me, in a country covered in dust. But he aged fast. Though his suits remained sharp his face thinned, his knowing smile took on something sad and his luxurious style slipped into a louche gear. Clearly the recent death of his second wife devastated him but it was something else too. He was a man trying too hard to be clean, trying too hard to hide the dirt within. As Beatrice waved me in, I smiled at her. She frowned. Never a good sign. It had been a while since I last saw him and I was so stunned I had to stop myself staring. It looked like someone had taken to his face with a scoop, carving out pockets of flesh. One cheek hollow and, as if in compensation, the other billowing out like a sail. I almost asked after his health but decided to forgo false pleasantries. We were beyond small talk. Strange to think that at the start, we were almost friends. Right up until we realised we were better suited as enemies.
I wasn’t long off the plane from Cork, still pale as butter, when he’d invited me over for a welcoming dinner. I remembered the day I arrived in Bwalo; I managed to shock myself with my own idiocy. Not as rare an occurrence as I’d like to hope. I was surprised to see cars, roads, shops. Not entirely sure what I was expecting. People swinging from trees? Lions chasing Zulus? Idiotic, I know. That’s just what I thought when I thought of Africa. I was young, dumb and a bit of a gom, a skinny Irish lad who’d never left Cork, a recently published author with the world at my feet. I remember it was my first time inside a real African’s house. Fresh from Ireland, I was ready for my exotic adventure, my Hemingway phase. I was prepared to observe deep cultural differences. Not that I thought the guy would live in a mud hut; I wasn’t a complete idiot.
But nothing was quite what I’d expected. For a start his house was huge and a Mercedes sat fat in the carport. His sitting room was an absurd mix of heavy African furniture and refined European art. Chairs carved from cedar, carpets of earthy threads, yet on his walls hung delicate Constable prints. Over time, he had become more sophisticated but back then he was still young and a touch rough around the edges.
When he poured me a whisky, he pointed to his tv and said, ‘Panasonic.’
He said it like it was his framed degree. So much pride: ‘Panasonic. Nineteen inches,’ squeezing extra vowels into the word, Panasoonic-e.
A bit baffled, I replied, ‘It’s grand. But I thought there was no tv here?’
‘True,’ he said, as if I’d asked just the right question and, like a magician with a flourish of open palms, he said, ‘My new Sony. vhs.’
‘Lovely,’ I replied. Then he added, ‘I get my shoes from London,’ and showed these fantastically expensive brogues polished enough to reflect my bemused expression.
I didn’t know it then but Josef had recently divorced and was a bachelor. So it was just the two of us for dinner. His cook, Ruby, served an Irish stew. I’d been hoping for goat curry, plantain, even a blob of nsima and beans, the dish of the Bwalo everyman. It was a lovely stew, mind. And he was a great host. We drank and spoke and, as different as our backgrounds were, we found common ground. He loved King Lear and when I raised my fork saying, ‘Am I a man more sinned against than sinning,’ he quoted back in his rich voice, ‘The art of our necessities is strange, that can make vile things precious.’ Odd moment when men from different worlds effortlessly reference authors and playwrights. The empire’s curriculum briefly bonded us but the glue didn’t hold. When I asked about a wife, things turned, and he fell into a sulk. I had to ask. It was impossible not to sense the female ghost in the trim of the curtains, the way the carpets shared some subtle pattern, something a man could sense but not articulate.
We made up over another whisky but it was obvious from the first weeks at work that we didn’t see eye to eye. Soon he stopped inviting me for dinner, the novelty of the funny Paddy fading fast, Irish stew wiped off the menu. Then, before I knew it, we were faculty enemies. Men who disagreed on education policy, teaching and life. As dean he’d let the place fall to ruin. I taught classes with sixty students, ten chairs and three textbooks. For months there were no working toilets anywhere on campus and all the while his Ministry of Spies gleamed like a diamond.
So now I sat before him, awaiting my latest reprimand, a new laptop – Sa
msung-e – on the desk. I considered confessing to throwing out the bookcase, maybe even faking a little remorse, but before I spoke he threw a book at me and it flapped open in my lap. It was in a bad state, as if he’d been kicking it around the office before I arrived.
‘The wilderness found him out . . .’ I quoted. ‘Whispering things to him, echoing loudly within him because he was hollow to the core . . .’
‘Very poetic,’ he snapped. ‘Sean, we’re not friends, you’re not protected here, so tell me: what gives you the idea that you can teach a banned book, subversive material?’
‘Conrad’s disturbing Darkness and Achebe’s sublime response: these two greats form the literary hinge of African . . .’
‘Spare me the lecture!’
‘I was only trying to educate.’
‘Exactly. Educate. Educate my students the way I want you to. You will have all of these books returned to my office on Monday.’
‘Why? So you can burn them?’
His head snapped up. I thought he might jump the desk and throttle me. For years the teachers warned me about Josef. It’s bad to make an enemy of a peer. Far worse when your peer becomes a powerful politician. Everyone said that Josef was connected to the Big Man and had shot through the university ranks with the speed of a nepotistic rocket. Yet here he was, permanently furious about his place in the world. But even after he got his fancy and ludicrously long ministerial title, I treated him just the same. Far as I was concerned he was still just a man running the university into the ground.
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